The Changes That Were Inevitable
by foojules
Summary: Missing scenes in the developing relationship between Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson. Starts at the beginning and fills in some of the gaps. Canon…ish.
1. Chapter 1: May 1913

_AN: This is a multi-chapter I've been working on for a while; in fact, one of the later chapters sprang from some of the first (unpublished) S/T fic I ever wrote. So it's safe to say it's been a long time coming.  
_

_I'll try to avoid any direct or significant contradictions of canon, at least through Series 2, but there will be some fudging of the timeline (and I'll be writing things that I'm pretty sure are not within Sir Fellowes'' vision—such as it was—for these characters). Starting right off, I couldn't resist setting Tom and Sybil's first meeting in the library. This takes place a couple of days after Tom has started work at Downton (the "women's rights begin at home" scene in the car is after this). _

_Thanks to sakurasencha for relevant feedback._

* * *

May 1913

He hasn't stopped thinking of it since his first glimpse.

Tom's memory of the library is imperfect—he was a bit nervy his last time there, wanting to start off on the right foot with Lord Grantham—but it impressed him as soon as he walked in. The old mistress kept hers closed up, the books moldering on the shelves, but Downton's library strikes him as a place that's lived in and valued, to say nothing of the inventory. Just seeing the room has elevated Tom's opinion of his new employer as a man... not that it matters to anyone but him.

And of course he promptly put his foot in his mouth. Gentlemen generally don't appreciate hearing words like "boring" from servants in connection with their betters. But Lord Grantham seemed not to mind; looked amused, even. So Tom felt emboldened to comment on his surroundings, and was even more surprised at his lordship's offer.

_Probably thinks he's done his good deed for the day_, Tom thought after he'd been dismissed. He's come across men like the earl of Grantham before, puffed full of _noblesse oblige_. Most of them wouldn't hesitate to sack a man who so much as pilfered an apple from his orchard. But now that Tom's been given the run of the library, he intends to take full advantage of it.

He doesn't wait long, though he's aware that Mr. Carson will likely look askance at the new chauffeur seeking out leisure activities before the ink's dry on the contract, so to speak. But the siren call of thousands of books is too tempting for Tom to worry overmuch about what Mr. Carson thinks, so just before he's to fetch the Dowager for dinner he finds the butler and asks if he might go into the library sometime in the next few days.

Mr. Carson glowers, but Tom has already figured out how to handle him: you just make your expression as respectful as you can and act as though you don't notice the beetled brows. After a moment Carson rumbles, "I dare say no one will be in there tomorrow morning before breakfast, Mr. Branson. One of the housemaids can show you in." Tom remembers his way perfectly well, but says nothing: Carson is eyeing him as if he might set the place on fire if allowed in by himself. "Mind you don't allow your reading to interfere with your work," the butler cannot seem to resist adding.

"Of course not, Mr. Carson."

The next morning Tom doesn't bother trying to find an escort—no need to interrupt one of the maids—and makes his way as far as he can through the bowels of the house before emerging into the hall. As per Mr. Carson's prediction, the library is deserted. The curtains have already been opened to allow dust-laden shafts of sunlight through the high windows, and there's a fire laid. An almost hedonistic thrill goes through him at the thought that he'll have the place to himself until the family finishes breakfast.

He's sat through his share of descriptions of the glories of Heaven, but Tom thinks that his personal version would be a library stocked with an infinite number of books, with unlimited time and plenty of comfortable nooks in which to read. A library not unlike this one (though he thinks St. Peter might look askance at the bordello-red sofa, whose high back is perfectly suited to shield improprieties from prying eyes). But here on earth his time is all too short, and Tom hardly knows where to start. There's a long list in his head of books he wants to read, but in the face of this almost obscene plenty, he can't recall a single title.

A few moments' time lends a modicum of familiarity to the novelty of his surroundings—he has, after all, been inside a library before—and Tom's mental paralysis eases. He ambles around, glancing at titles and trying to figure out the system by which his lordship has his collection organized, or whether there's a system at all. Some of the books look as though they've never even been opened: at a shelf of novels he runs a finger down the spine on a Sir Walter Scott, its gilt lettering as shiny as the day it was stamped.

The noise of the door opening and closing startles him and Tom whirls around with his hand still on the book, feeling as though he's been caught in something illicit. _Maybe I should've hunted up a housemaid after all_, he thinks, but it's not Mr. Carson or Lord Grantham: only a young lady. _One of the daughters._ Mr. Carson mentioned them in passing during Tom's brief orientation, but related little more than the fact that there are three of them, and while only the elder two are out in society, Mr. Branson should expect to spend a fair bit of his time driving all of them about.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl says in a voice that sounds more mature than one would think, coming from that fresh face. "I didn't know anyone was in here." She passes the book she's holding from one hand to the other and back again, the only indication that she's the slightest bit disconcerted. Her hair is not put up on top of her head but hangs down her back in an elaborate horsetail; Tom is well enough acquainted with the customs of upper-class femininity to know that this means she is not yet out, which must make her the youngest.

Tom draws himself smartly to attention and focuses on the bit of floor just in front of her skirt. "Not at all, m'lady," he says with a blandness that he hopes will mask his annoyance at the interruption. "His lordship told me I might borrow a book now and then. I'll be going." He trains his eyes on the door and his feet make as if to follow.

She raises her hand to stop him. "Please don't go on my account. I won't be a moment. I'm just checking one back in." She walks over to the table that holds the ledger and picks up the pen. "You're the new chauffeur, aren't you? Branson, is it?" She leans down slightly to write in the book and out of the corner of his eye Tom registers the graceful line of her neck beneath the glossy lanyard of her hair.

"'Tis, m'lady."

"I'm Lady Sybil." Tom merely inclines his head at this. "So you're a reader, then?"

"I am." He shifts his gaze to look her in the eye.

"I am too. I do love books." She smiles. "What do you read?"

He tells her what he told her father. "Mostly history and politics, m'lady."

"I'm afraid my knowledge in those areas is sadly lacking. I should have liked to know more about them, but my governess didn't think them very ladylike." Her smile slips a bit, turns rueful.

"I don't believe any area of knowledge is inherently masculine or feminine," Tom says before he can think not to. "Personally, I see no reason a woman shouldn't interest herself in whatever it is she finds interesting. M'lady." He's not sure what has made him speak so freely, only that Lady Sybil doesn't seem as though she'll mind. He finds himself liking her, and not just in response to her friendliness. Her face has an open, curious look to it, and of course they have something in common.

He judged her correctly: far from minding, she beams at him. "I wish more people thought like you." She puts down the pen and lays her book on the table to be reshelved, but instead of leaving she crosses the room toward Tom. "What were you looking at just now?"

He shifts his weight, wondering if she remembers that the library door is shut. He's not had enough time to feel things out completely, so he's not entirely sure how serious a problem it would be for him to be found alone in a room with the earl's daughter. He does know it'd be a fine thing to get the sack over a manufactured scandal before his first week is out. "I was trying to get a sense of the place, the way things are organized." He glances toward the door, hoping fervently that Mr. Carson or worse, Lord Grantham, will not open it.

"Oh, well, that's easy. Mr. Pathinson—he's our librarian—has everything arranged by subject area." Lady Sybil approaches, with a sweep of her hand to indicate the shelf Tom was perusing when she came in. "See, Literature is just here. And then they're in alphabetical order by author's surname."

"That makes sense, m'lady. Thank you; you've just saved me some time." Tom edges toward the door, willing her to dismiss him. The whole situation is too dicey: someone could come in at any moment and if there's any suspicion, he'll be the object of it.

"Was there something in particular you wanted?" She scans the shelves, oblivious to Tom's discomfort. "History is over here, I think..." Finally she seems to notice the distance Tom has put between them. "Is something wrong?"

It's surprising, really; you'd think that these posh girls' mamas and governesses would constantly be squawking about the importance of appearances. Or maybe the squawking is _so _constant that Lady Sybil has learnt to ignore it. _And she is very young_. "Beg pardon, m'lady. Only..." Tom tries to think of a diplomatic way to put this. "...It might seem a bit irregular, if someone were to come in right now." He spreads his hands, palms up. "With the door having been closed. The look of the thing, you see."

"Oh!" Lady Sybil's eyes widen and a slight blush stains her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think." She hurries to the door, passing just close enough to for Tom to get a faint whiff of something floral. "I'll just come back in the afternoon."

Embarrassed at having flustered her, Tom nods.

She opens the door but pauses before stepping out into the hall, turning and giving Tom a smile that tells him that she has not taken any discomfort to heart. "It was nice to meet you, Branson," she says.

Tom smiles in return and bows his head. "Likewise, Lady Sybil."


	2. Chapter 2: June 1913

_AN: Thank you so much for your reviews on Chapter 1! And thanks are also due to sakurasencha, whose feedback convinced me that this chapter was necessary._

* * *

June 1913

Despite Miss O'Brien's tongue-lashing about eating in the servants' hall the other night, Tom sees no reason he shouldn't be allowed a cup of tea from the kitchen every so often. Studious though he is, he's always liked being around people. A good thing too, growing up as he did smack in the middle of a tumbling kaleidoscope of brothers and sisters. So when midafternoon comes on Friday and he begins to flag at his task—Tom hopes his predecessor is better suited to entrepreneurship than car repair—he turns his steps to the big house rather than his own silent and musty cottage.

Whilst he fixes his tea the cook bustles around him with noisy but unarticulated impatience, seeming more annoyed at there being an extra body in her kitchen than the fact that it belongs to the chauffeur. After he's seated himself at the long table in the servants' hall Mrs. Hughes passes by the doorway with a brief nod to him, but no word. Implicit permission secured, Tom settles back to sip and look over the day's news.

He's not left to himself for long. A pair of maids come in, nodding to him and alighting at the far end of the table. He hasn't got all the names down yet, but the fair-haired girl is Anna, the one who got up Miss O'Brien's nose by daring to be ill. The other is that redhead he's seen about, her fiery hair offset by her sober day dress and a rather long face. She has a cup of tea; Anna takes out a bit of needlework. They speak in low tones which carry straight across this room full of hard surfaces. Apparently Ginger has received a disappointing letter in regards to an appointment she'd been looking forward to.

Tom's ears prick up when he hears her mention Lady Sybil. "She says she won't give up, though I'm sure it's no use. No one will ever…"

"Oh, Gwen, you mustn't think that way." Her companion cuts her off briskly but kindly. "You can't have done all that hard work for nothing. And if Lady Sybil is on your side, then you're halfway there already."

"I don't know," Gwen responds, still down in the mouth. "It's always an uphill battle for our lot, isn't it?" She sounds more resigned than bitter.

"Sooner or later something will come up. You'll see." Anna secures the needle between her fingers and reaches over to give Gwen's arm a little squeeze.

"You dressing the young ladies tonight?" Gwen asks. By now Tom has stopped trying to read at all, though to be polite he keeps his eyes on his paper. But he can hear a smile in her voice. "Wait 'til you get a look at Lady Sybil's new frock."

"Is it finished, then?" Anna has resumed her work, her deft needle slipping through the silk in her hand like a train rolling on its track.

"It is indeed. It's quite… well, it's gorgeous, of course, but it's quite shocking." Gwen blows on her tea and gingerly raises the cup to her lips, slurping a little.

The needle pauses. "Shocking? Well, now you have to tell me." Anna gives a small smile, her eyes on her work, and begins stitching again.

"It's nothing like that. Only…" Tom can feel Gwen's eyes turn toward him, speculatively. He frowns and turns a page, trying to look as though he couldn't be less interested in housemaids' chatter. And he tries very hard not to think about what a _shocking _dress might look like on Lady Sybil. Gwen lowers her voice again, but he thinks he hears her say "...Trousers."

"Good heavens," Anna responds, not without admiration. "I should like to be a fly on the wall in the drawing room when she goes down to dinner tonight." She shakes her head. "His lordship's not going to like it one bit."

"I think it's rather daring. Lady Sybil says we must move with the times, and that includes fashion," Gwen declares with a worshiper's fervor.

"It certainly _sounds _daring," Anna says. "And if anyone can bring it off, I dare say she can." She glances at the clock and snips off her thread. "Speaking of dresses, we'd best go up and change." And with a rustle of aprons and a couple of polite smiles to Tom, they are gone.

He should be off as well; the Crawleys and Old Lady Grantham are coming to dinner, and he wants to locate the source of a rather worrying noise the car's making before it's time to fetch them. But first he finishes his tea and mulls over what he's just heard. For all her concern about her father's and grandmother's fine sensibilities, it seems Lady Sybil is not averse to rattling their cages when it suits her. Tom decides that's something he wouldn't mind having a look at. Not at all.

_A fly on the wall in the drawing room_, Anna said, and of course getting _that _close would be impossible. But if, after parking the car in the yard, he should just happen to be going round the front of the house to the servants' entrance… and if he should just happen to pass by the drawing-room window before the family goes in to dinner…

He doesn't worry about what'll happen if someone sees him skulking around outside—or if, God forbid, one of the family should actually glance out the window and catch sight of him. Instead he remembers the happy surprise in Lady Sybil's voice when she thanked him for the pamphlets, and how resolute she sounded the other day when she told her sister she wanted a frock that was _new and exciting_. Having worked for perhaps the dullest old lady in the whole of Ireland, Tom well understands the desire for a bit of diversion, no matter what form it takes. Himself, he's never had the luxury of clothes being entertainment, but he does know how to relish the small satisfaction of shaking things up a bit. He'd like to see that satisfaction on Lady Sybil's face…

...and he'd very much like to see for himself just what she means by "new and exciting."

* * *

_Up next: we hear from Sybil as she discovers that her family aren't the only ones who got a look at her new frock._


	3. Chapter 3: June 1913

_AN: Thanks to sakurasencha for feedback and to all y'all for the reviews!_

* * *

June 1913

"So you had your way."

Roused from her own thoughts, Sybil looks up to see the chauffeur in partial profile, his head twisted to the side to address her. The corner of his mouth curves up and what she can see of his left eye appears to be twinkling. "Sorry?" Branson has been at Downton for several weeks and by now Sybil has grown somewhat accustomed to his gregariousness, though she notices that it's only when she's in the car alone that he speaks without being spoken to first.

"With the frock," he clarifies. "You had your way."

Sybil drops her eyes, smiling. "You heard, then." She wonders what the talk was that evening, below stairs. Maybe she can get it out of him: Gwen has been uncharacteristically reticent on the subject, and of course Anna is a vault.

Branson's smile broadens and he turns his head back further than Sybil thinks might be quite safe, as fast as they're hurtling down the road. "I saw it, actually."

Sybil's brow wrinkles. "You... how?" The _I-don't-know-what-it-is-but-it's-not-a-gown_, as Papa disgustedly referred to it, has not made another public appearance since Sybil was undressed for bed on the night of its debut. _That _lecture wasn't much fun to sit through: _Scandalous... suppose we'd had someone besides your grandmother and the Crawleys to dinner... waste of good money..._

Branson, however, looks more amused than offended by the idea of a woman wearing trousers. "I happened to be passing by," he says mysteriously and then shuts his mouth, looking like the cat that got the cream.

_I suppose I'll have to work that one out for myself_. It's uncanny, how servants see and hear things when they've seemingly no way of doing so. From what Gwen says, the staff knows just about everything that goes on in Downton Abbey. "And what did you think?" Sybil asks with some cheek. "Was a look at my new frock worth the spying?"

That wipes the grin off his face. His head snaps back around to the front. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn, m'lady. I apologize."

_Oh. _He's taken it as a rebuke, when she really didn't mean it that way—it's just that living in a display window does get tiresome at times. Feeling eyes follow her in the village streets is one thing; in her own home it's quite another. Still, it was wrong of her to take out her annoyance on him. Sybil's cheeks redden at her blunder and for a moment she can only sit in awkward silence, staring at the back of Branson's neck as his own blush fades. She rallies soon enough, though, and leans forward to speak to him again. "I only meant... did you _like _the frock?" Her voice is as friendly as she can make it.

The tension goes out of his shoulders, though he's still a little on the defensive, tossing his response back with barely a turn of his head. "I'm no expert on ladies' wear, but I thought it very modern. And I mean that as a compliment."

Sybil leans back against the leather cushions, strangely gratified. "Well, I'm glad someone appreciated it."

The smirk is back in Branson's voice. "You didn't get quite the reaction you were hoping for from your family?"

"To say the least." Sybil laughs. "I thought Papa was going to blow his stack." She remembers herself and puts a gloved hand to her lips: it's well and good to say that sort of thing to Mary or even to Anna, but talking to the chauffeur about getting a scolding from her father seems a bridge too far.

Branson, however, replies with admirable diplomacy. "Well, some people embrace change more readily than others."

"And some don't embrace it at all," Sybil mutters. "Branson, do you think things will change for women in our lifetime? I mean _really _change, not just being able to wear what we like." She leans forward again, truly curious about his answer. He went to the trouble of giving her those pamphlets, he must have an opinion on the subject.

He is silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but she can tell he's thinking about it. Finally he says, "It depends."

"On what?"

His head twists around again and Sybil's stomach drops slightly, though the car continues straight on its course. "On you. That is to say, on women themselves. Those in power aren't going to give you what you want unless you make them."

The corners of Sybil's lips curl upward. "I thought you said you weren't a revolutionary."

Branson gives a chuckle. "I only mean that women are the ones with a vested interest in pursuing their own liberation. Not that it's all got to be down to you, of course, but no one's ever gotten anything worthwhile by sitting and waiting for it to be handed to them."

"I suppose you're right." Sybil has never thought of rights that way, as something that might be taken rather than given.

"And if you don't mind me saying, m'lady, highborn women such as yourself are well placed to help the cause, if you choose to. You move in powerful circles. People watch what you do and take their cues from you. You could have a lot of influence."

Sybil turns her head to watch the countryside go by. Hearing Branson talk like that makes it sound like rather a heavy responsibility, and one she's not fulfilling very well. Charity work, helping Gwen… suddenly those things seem so insignificant, raindrops in the sea. _But they're a start_. And if what he says is true... "I could, couldn't I?" She asks the question of herself as much as the chauffeur.

"Without a doubt." He gives a decisive nod and smiles over his shoulder at her again.

She rides in silence until they've almost reached the turning to the house, and then moves into the opposite seat and leans almost into the Renault's cab. There's no one to overhear them, but nevertheless she feels that what she's about to ask calls for a lowered voice. "Branson?"

His chin comes up. "Yes, m'lady." He answers in the same quiet voice she used and she can see his eyes flick inquisitively in her direction, though he keeps his face forward.

"I think it would help me if—do you think you could get me some more pamphlets? On the vote? And... any other subject you think might be edifying."

He shifts along the bench in her direction, just slightly. "Certainly, m'lady." The corner of his mouth turns up. "Is there anything in particular you were wanting to know more about?"

"Oh, I don't know." She picks at a loose thread on her skirt. "Women's rights in general, I suppose." She thinks of Gwen and and how unlikely the housemaid seems to think it that her modest hopes will ever come to fruition. "Perhaps something about the workers' movement."

His eyebrows rise to the brim of his cap. "Rather subversive reading for the daughter of an earl," he remarks, his smile broadening.

"No more subversive than a revolutionary chauffeur. Forgive me—a _socialist _chauffeur." She quirks an eyebrow, enjoying the way she can be a bit saucy when talking to him. No one in her set has a sense of humor, or at least not the kind that appreciates repartee. Pranks and gossip—the latter more and more frequent and mean-spirited these days—seem to be the most Sybil can expect out of her friends.

He chuckles appreciatively. "Fair enough. If you want some background as well, your father has some books that might interest you," he says. "I could point you in the right direction, if you like."

"Good heavens. I didn't realize my father allowed propaganda in his house."

Branson laughs again. "I suppose they're old enough now to be historical rather than inflammatory. Do you know Mary Wollstonecraft? Olympe de Gouges? I know I've seen those names in the library."

"Wollstonecraft sounds familiar." _Vaguely._

"They wrote in the eighteenth century. So you see, people advocating for women's rights is hardly a new phenomenon." His words tumble out as if he can't contain them, as if he's truly excited to be able to share knowledge with someone. _So different to __Fräulein __Kelda_. Sybil's governess has the curious and rather impressive ability to suck the life out of nearly any subject, when she can be bothered to give lessons at all: an increasingly rare occurrence, what with the good _Fräulein _being quite burnt out and her one remaining charge only too happy to indulge her "sick headaches."

"And the French Revolution wasn't only about cutting off heads," Branson continues wryly, "but democracy and liberty for women as well as men."

"I'd be very interested to read more about it." And goodness knows she'll have plenty of time on her hands, with everyone going up to London later this month. "Thank you, Branson." She'll wait until later to worry about how often Papa looks at the ledger and what he'll make of the sudden shift in her reading matter. _Maybe he'll think __Fräulein has gone political. _She almost laughs.

Branson smiles again and his eyes touch hers, just for a second. "It's my pleasure, m'lady."


End file.
